will always run out of food, out of houses, out of . . . hope.
Yeah, I guess this poem is pretty sad too.
Thursday, October 28
Dear James,
I have two small closets in my bedroom. When my parents were still together, and life seemed defined by rules, one was designated for my warmer-month clothes and the other for winter. Nowadays, I fit all my clothes into one closet and use the other as my hiding space. I kind of see it as my tunnel toward being whoever I want to be.
In it, I’ve hung a Whitney Houston poster where her hair looks so beautiful and curly, placed my favorite pillow and my small, battery-operated radio/tape player. My closet is just big enough to sit inside, with my knees semi-comfortably pressed into my chest. I guess it’s not much of a hiding space since my whole family knows I go in there sometimes when I don’t want to be bothered.
I often close the door when I’m in there and the only light coming in comes from the gap between the door and the floorboards. I imagine my body as though it hides its own trap door. Sometimes I take off all my clothes, so the darkness becomes like a fifth wall, and then just feel around. I pretend everything is as it should be. I knead my small breasts in a way that pushes them down like that time Dad and I made challah together and I could feel the tough dough get more elastic and even with each push of my palm. I imagine planting seeds in my vagina, waiting for something different to grow. James, good thing you’re paper now, because you’d probably stop reading this, but this is how I feel. I’d watch the roots slowly pour out, twist and turn. My vagina would be replaced by a fern or banana tree. Or, maybe just a giant hand would emerge and scoop out all the woman in me.
It’s like I’m a meal on a menu with the wrong name. My ingredients make it seem like I’m one dish when really, I swear I’m another.
Saturday, October 30
Dear James,
Today, Aggie comes over for the first time and I just can’t wait. But James, I want to tell you about group this week. Flor didn’t come because she had a date—which she seemed super excited about—so Shirley dropped me off. You probably want to know if your mom was there.
“I want to shape tonight a little bit, if that’s alright with everyone,” Peter said. Usually he takes a back seat to the discussion. He kind of just nods his head, but not in a way like he isn’t listening, more like knowing that it’s about us and not him.
“I’d like to encourage everyone to speak. Of course, if this feels uncomfortable or impossible, then of course you may pass. But I am going to place a question in the air for everyone and hopefully embolden some thoughts.” Peter twisted the end of his moustache. He did this a lot when he was listening. It’s like it turned his thoughts on or something.
“There is very often guilt involved with survivors. We’ve talked about this in here. A sense of ‘I should have said this’. What do you want to say in this moment? For some of us, we’ve had only weeks apart from the tragedy. Others, months, even years. But as we know, the questions and thoughts never stop. So, tonight, I want us to fully address our loved ones. Talk to them. Say what we didn’t. Speaking it out is a path—a long, windy one—toward healing.”
Maeve, who lost her sister, started to speak. “There were times I just wanted you to finally go. Our whole lives you kept trying and it became so painful. I stopped . . . I stopped trusting you. I could never get comfortable. And then, when you . . . when you finally . . . I was relieved.” She pressed her hand against her mouth.
James, I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I guess every letter to you is full of this doubt, this sense of why do I need to give these words to you? But Thursday’s group gave me this sense of understanding a little bit more about speaking out loud. Even when the words feel like they are too late.
“Maybe we were too hard on him,” your mom spoke.
“If it’s alright, I want to encourage you to speak directly to him,” Peter said.
“Yes, of course. Sorry. My husband . . . I tried to get him to come tonight . . . he . . . he’s not . . . he blames himself. He expected James to be a certain way. But we do that as parents, we want for our children what we didn’t have. We never want them to suffer. And yet . . . he was suffering the whole time.”
James, as your mom spoke, she held onto a handkerchief so tight, I watched her knuckles scream.
“I should have just let you be you,” she said. She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes and nose.
Like I said, I don’t usually talk, but I felt a pull.
“My mom just attempted, but it hurts just the same,” I said, “because it’s like even though she is still here, I’m still scared that she’ll . . . sorry, you . . . will try again. And also, it’s hard knowing how you tried so hard to leave us.” I looked at Peter and said, “Her being here is kind of like a consolation prize.”
“What do you mean by that, Eleanor?” Peter asked.
“I guess it’s like . . . well, I used to watch The Price is Right with my grandma. You know that show? People have to guess the price of things and then the winner gets to play something else. Sometimes they get to choose between door number 1, 2, or 3. You just know they’re all hoping for a car. Or like a dream vacation to Hawaii or something. Usually people are excited no matter what it is, even if it’s just a washing machine. But sometimes it’s like a suitcase made of broccoli and you can tell the person is excited to be on television, but pretty disappointed. My mom meant to die and when she didn’t, I’m sure there was a part of her that felt bummed, you know? She tells me she’s sorry and that she wants to be here, but it’s still hard to accept.”
James, I could just feel everyone stare at me. I got super self-conscious. And then your mom said something.
“You know Eleanor, sometimes we make a decision and moments right after, we wish, wish we could change our minds.”
After group, during cookie-hoarding time, as I like to call it, I spoke with your mom for a bit.
“How are you . . . how are you?” I asked her.
“Each day still feels empty, missing.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that.
“Eleanor, would you like to come over for supper sometime?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“And your mother too. We’d love to have you both.”
When I got home, I talked to Shirley about Helaine and her invitation. I gave her Helaine’s phone number, and Shirley said she’d set something up.
Sunday, October 31 (HALLOWEEN!!!)
Dear James,
Aggie and I were up until 5 a.m., finally falling asleep against each
